Funhouse Slide Into Madness
by Pinkqueen
Summary: Once upon a time, a young woman set out for Gotham City with a dream. It takes her to Arkham Asylum, home of the criminally insane. But all of her plans change when the craziest of them all takes an interest in her. This is not a story of hope. This is not a story of redemption. This is a story of madness, and love. This is the story of Harleen Quinzel and her decent into insanity.
1. Origins

**Hello, world! Today I shall tell the tale of a young lady from Gotham, and her decent into insanity. I am speaking of course of Harley Quinn. Now, her origins have literally been done a million gazillion times, but I'd like to throw my hat into the ring.**

**Special thanks to Fancy Pants Penguin Jiao-Jie for being my first beta reader! Enjoy!**

* * *

Harleen Quinzel was born into an upper-middle class family in a pleasant suburb about ten miles from Gotham City. She had anything she could ever want, but no one really seemed to notice her. When she hit high school, boys her age noticed her, but her father forbade her from seeing them. "You don't want _that_ kind of attention, Harleen." Her teachers began to notice her too. Especially the men.

When her grades began to fall for the first time, all it took was some eyelash batting and some saucy notes left on the teacher's desk after class. But the more she got away with it, the more fun it became. Soon, she became a master of seduction. One class she never had to flirt her way through was Psychology.

The way people's minds ticked fascinated her, and she took to it like a fish to water. With her academic record, though, she knew she would never get into any university worth its salt. So she turned to gymnastics, a sport she had been competing in since she was five. She knew if she was awarded a gymnastics scholarship, she could transfer to the psychology department and get her degree.

After flipping and jumping her way into Gotham State University, Harleen quickly learned that college wasn't going to be as easy as she thought. She was going to have to revert to her old... "study habits". She found she didn't have to for long, though. After the first quarter, she was starting to catch up with the steady flow of schoolwork given to her by her professors. That day, the newly graduated doctor left the campus she had come to know so well with a diploma, her teddy bear, and a dream. A dream to be like Dr. Phil, only better. Her own show on T.V., a line of self-help books, getting lunch with talk-show legends like Oprah and Ellen.

But how to get there?

* * *

Harley had just had a very stressful conversation with her mother. "I don't see _why_ you insist on languishing in Gotham City in some lowly apartment when you have a home with us."

"Because, Mother," Harley snapped, "I'm trying to make something of myself. I can't just drop everything and come home because you're clingy! I gotta go. I need to get some sleep. I start at my _new job_ tomorrow." She hung up, not waiting for a response. It had been a long day, and she just wanted to eat some take-out and go to sleep.

After ordering some chow mein, she walked into the bathroom and grabbed a bottle of aspirin from the medicine cabinet. Swallowing one to combat her new headache, courtesy of her mother, she looked at herself in the mirror. She sighed at the worry lines already appearing on her young face. _It'll all be worth it, Harls._ Her doorbell rang and she went to answer it, grabbing her wallet from her coffee table along the way. After paying for her takeout, she plopped down on her squeaky couch and switched on the T.V. The current channel was showing the news, which in this town was never good.

She rolled her eyes at a fluff piece about a big-name celebrity cutting off her hair and donating it to cancer. _Oh, please,_ she thought, chewing on some chicken, _you're a gazillionare! You want to help cancer research, try donating a couple thousand dollars. _Harley felt around the cushions for the remote._Hell, _I _could donate some god-damn hair! Will the news run a story on _me_? No! _She found it and was about to change the channel when a headline caught her eye.

**MADMAN ROBS BANK, 5 DEAD, 12 INJURED**

**_Police urge citizens to report suspicious behavior_**

Stuffing more sauce-coated noodles into her mouth, she cranked the volume up. A petite woman with a blonde bob stood in front of a bank surrounded by police cars. She spoke animatedly, making frequent gestures with her hands.

"The suspect reportedly fled the scene in a stolen school bus, making off with an estimated fifty million dollars in cash. This has been the fifth in a string of violent bank robberies in the Gotham area." A security camera still flashed onscreen of a man wearing a purple suit and makeup. "Due to his ostentatious appearance, citizens have taken to calling the perpetrator The Joker. But don't be fooled by _this_ clown; he is believed to be heavily armed, mentally unstable, and extremely dangerous. If anyone has any information on the robber, they are urged to call..."

The reporter droned on, but Harley was barely listening. She was staring at the image of the dangerous criminal onscreen. He maintained a colorful outer appearance, but at the same time, harbored a dark, dangerous mannerism. What grabbed her attention were the scars twisting up from the corners of his mouth. Accented by red paint, they made him seem as though he was always smiling.

They flashed back to the blonde reporter and Harley gave a small grunt of disapproval. "With the police doing all they can to apprehend the suspect, all we can do is hope that the men and women of the GCPD can stop The Joker's crime spree. I'm Vicki Vale, reporting live from the Gotham National Bank for GNN. Back to you, Jack."

A man in a tacky yellow jacket and glasses sitting at a desk appeared onscreen. "Thanks, Vicki. Coming up next: The Batman. Menace or protector? We'll weigh in-" Harley turned off the T.V., her thoughts on the 'extremely dangerous' clown that had graced her television.

_The Joker, huh?_ What she wouldn't do to dive into his psyche for an hour or two. She wondered what she'd see. Perhaps she'd solve the mystery of the permanent smile etched onto his face. She heard whispers that no one knew the true story of how he got his scars. He told a different story to each of his victims. She'd also heard that the few people who were brave, or maybe stupid, enough to ask were now taking up space in the bottom of a river.

She stood up to throw away her take-out box and chopsticks and noticed her trash bin was overflowing. It was dark out, and her building's trash chute had been "broken" since she moved in. Normally in these occasions, she would wait until morning to walk into the alley by her building and dump her trash into the dumpster, but she knew she had to get up early tomorrow for her first day of work, and in all of her excitement, she knew she would forget. She sighed and tied the top of the trash bag off.

Grabbing a small can of pepper spray and her keys from a drawer by the door, she briefly wondered if this was a good idea. Harley took a deep breath and stepped out into the hallway. She looked both ways and locked her door behind her, trying not to make a lot of noise. She knew that the Fergusons down the hall would be arguing late into the night, so she had some leeway as far as noise went. Speeding down the stairs, she jumped over the third step from the bottom, seeing as how it creaked very loudly whenever it was stepped on. She was lucky to only have to climb one flight of stairs to get to her apartment. Her dorm mate at the university, a forensic science major named Lanie, had a four-story walk-up. It had a nice view, though. If you like looking at parking lots and brick walls, of course.

Opening the door to the lobby, a woman who looked as though she should be on a street corner eyed her suspiciously. The woman walked past her into the stairwell and as she did, Harley could smell wine, cheap perfume, and cigarette smoke. She coughed and hurried on towards the front doors. She stopped just before the doors and took a deep breath. "You can do this," she whispered to herself. "Just go out there, toss the trash in, and come back. No big deal."

She opened the doors and stepped out onto the poorly-lit sidewalk. Dressed in a hoodie and a pair of shorts, she was an easy mark, especially since she had decided to sweep her long blonde hair into pigtails. She walked quickly, doing her best to look natural, despite the fact she had forgotten to put on shoes. She sneaked a glance down the alley before tip-toeing to the dumpster, narrowly avoiding stepping in a puddle of God-knows-what. Cursing aloud when she noticed the lid was closed, she set her trash down on the ground and struggled to lift the lid just enough to squeeze her trash in. She had almost done so, when she heard a small splash near the mouth of the alley.

She froze and placed a hand on her pepper spray in the kangaroo pocket of her jacket. She called out, "Hello?" It echoed slightly in the small space, her Brooklyn accent ringing through the air. Harley risked a glance behind her and saw nothing but an empty street. She released a breath she didn't realize she was holding and crammed her trash in the dumpster. Brushing her hands on her jacket, she walked back out to the sidewalk. She had just exited the alley when a gloved hand over her mouth pulled her back in.

Harley tried to scream, but the hand muffled it. She was pressed against the brick wall of her building, where her face, for the most part, was hidden in shadow. Her attacker's face, on the other hand had just enough light on it so she could see a few features.

Features such as two bright red scars running from each corner of the man's mouth up his cheeks into a permanent smile.

Harley's muffled screams intensified as she came to the realization that she was closer than she ever wanted to be to Gotham's most notorious criminal.

The Joker.

His tongue flicked briefly across his painted mouth and the corners twitched up slightly when he saw a tear falling from her eye catch the light. "Now," he drawled, "what's a pretty little doll like you doing out here this late at night?" She closed her eyes and whimpered. "Oh, shh, there, there, sweetheart. Let's see what we've got here." He reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her pepper spray. She could practically _feel_ amusement radiating off of him. "You live in the Narrows, and your best defense against loonies and crack heads is a can of pepper spray?" She could hear the can hit the ground a few feet down the alley.

She kept her eyes screwed shut, and tilted her face as far up as it would go with his hand on her mouth. "What's the matter, dollface? Scared? Is it the scars?" She feverishly shook her head 'no'. "Do you wanna know how I got 'em?" Harley whimpered again and shook her head more quickly. "Look at me." She kept her eyes glued shut, hoping that this was all just a bad dream; that she had fallen asleep on her cheap couch watching the news. He grabbed her by the chin, pulled her head back down and growled, "LOOK AT ME!"

She reluctantly opened her eyes and found that his face was inches from hers and she was staring into muddy green eyes. Oddly enough, she wasn't afraid. She felt something else break the fog of her fear. Something akin to the feeling she got the first time she held Jeremy Parker's hand in middle school. Joker must have felt it, too because he let go of her chin and stumbled back a step. His hand left her mouth, but she didn't scream. She couldn't have made a sound even if she wanted to.

He mumbled to himself for a second, while Harley looked on in stunned silence. "Go," he said more clearly. She was frozen to the spot. He didn't look at her, but he held up the hand that hadn't been covering her mouth and she saw the glint of a blade in the dim light. "Get out of my sight before I change my mind." Harley suddenly recovered the ability to walk, and walk she did. She sprinted to her apartment, not caring who heard her as the third step from the bottom protested loudly beneath her feet.

She reached her apartment door and dug her keys out of her pants pocket, eventually unlocking and opening the door of apartment 122. Running inside, she quickly closed it behind her and slammed the deadbolt shut. She stood there, leaning on her door, panting part from fear and part from all the running she had just done. Her keys fell from her limp hand and landed with a jangle on the floor. _The Joker_, she thought. _Of all the people in Gotham I could meet in a dark alley, it just _had_to be the Joker, didn't it?_

She slid down the door until she was sitting with her back up against it. She reached up and felt around her countertop until she found her phone. She dialed in a number and as it rang, the reality of what had just happened came crashing down around her. Tears streamed freely down her face and she began to sob. Her call went to voicemail, so she left a message. "Mom? It's me," she sobbed. "Are you awake? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You're not clingy. I love you so much."

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**Every time you review, a child in Africa gets a free Xbox!**

**Well, not really. But wouldn't that be great?**


	2. Working Stiff

***Well, I'd say this is coming along pretty quickly. This chapter isn't as long or action-packed as the last, but it's still important. It sets things up and introduces some pretty important people.**

**Have fun!**

* * *

As her patient sat on the couch opposite her, talking about his latest attempt on Batman's life, Dr. Quinzel stared at the clock on the wall, willing it to go faster. Their hour was only half-over, but she couldn't take much more of his ramblings. Edward Nygma was so engrossed in describing every precise detail of his "ingenious" plan he didn't seem to take any notice when Harleen yawned widely. _Yeah, yeah, that's great_, she thought, doodling in the margin of her notepad, _but if this plan of yours was so great, then why are you back in Arkham?_ She cleared her throat and Edward looked up at the doctor with sharp green eyes. "That's all well and good, Mr. Nygma, but I think we should cover why you feel the need to come up with these... plans of yours." She spoke in what she called her 'work voice'; she drastically lowered the pitch and suppressed her accent. She found that she got more respect this way.

Edward smirked at her, "I'm sorry, Doctor. Feeling tired?" He leaned back on the couch and rested his head on his crossed arms. "Or, maybe you'd like to get back to drawing on your notepad? Never assume I'm not paying attention, Doctor Quinzel. Especially when it comes to you." Harleen just barely suppressed a shudder at the sudden turn his words took. He had been coming onto her since she first arrived a few weeks ago. Every time she thought she had stamped it out, new hope rose from the ashes. Maybe she should start wearing slacks or flats, like the other female doctors. She briefly considered this before she realized she didn't have any. Or any spare money to buy them with. She was saving up for a new apartment. Something a little less... scary.

She removed her glasses and began to clean them on a cloth she retrieved from her pocket. "Mr. Nygma, I've told you a hundred times; doctors and patients cannot have relationships. And even if you weren't my patient, I wouldn't be interested."

The Riddler shrugged, down, but not out. "Fine. Riddle me this, good Doctor. When is a beautiful woman like a prizefighter?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Harleen frowned and replaced the cleaning cloth inside her jacket pocket. _Not more riddles! I thought we were getting somewhere!_ "I don't know, Edward. When?" He grinned arrogantly, as if he knew she wouldn't get it.

"When they're both a knockout."

Harleen replaced her glasses and sighed, "Edward, if you don't behave, I'm going to hand your case over to another doctor." Edward's face fell and he narrowed his eyes.

"You wouldn't dare," he half-growled.

Harleen merely shrugged, "I'm a woman of my word. Oh, but don't worry about going untreated. I'm sure Dr. Whistler would be more than happy to take your case." She knew she wasn't supposed to threaten or tease the patients, but she couldn't help but put a mental tally mark in the 'win' column.

He grumbled something involving the words 'death-trap' and 'superior intellect'. "What was that, Mr. Nygma?"

Edward smiled with what appeared to be great effort, "Oh, nothing, just reliving some old memories. Speaking of which, where was I?"

When the remaining half-hour had passed, Edward was escorted back to his cell; not a moment too soon, in Harleen's opinion. She was finishing her session summary when there was a knock on the door. "Come in!" she called, not looking up. Her office door creaked open and she looked to find her boss standing in the doorway. "Oh, good afternoon, Warden Sharp. Can I get you some coffee?" Harleen stood and walked over to her coffee maker on a table across the room.

"No thank you, Dr. Quinzel," he stated in his usual haughty tone. "I'm afraid I have some rather important news. Something that shall affect the entire asylum." While Harleen poured herself a cup of coffee, Warden Sharp closed the door behind him and took a seat on the couch.

"With all due respect, sir, if this news is so big," Harleen questioned, sitting at her desk, "why didn't you just call a meeting or put out an announcement?"

Sitting up a little straighter, Sharp laid his walking stick next to him on the couch. "I will, but seeing as how this will have the greatest impact on you, I thought it would be in your best interest to be the first to know." He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. "I'm sure you're aware of the deranged individual who has been terrorizing the city this past month. Calls himself The Joker."

Harleen tensed at the name. She tried not to think about it. It brought back memories. Memories of dark alleys, a blood-red grin, and being so close to death she could taste it, like a glass of rotten milk. "Yes," she said, shakily, "what about him?"

Retrieving a manila folder from inside his jacket, the Warden continued speaking. "The city, along with everyone in it, believes this man to be criminally insane. Personally, I think he should be put down, like the rabid dog he is." He sneered before regaining his neutral expression. "They're bringing him here, with hopes that he be able to rehabilitate enough to serve a life sentence in Blackgate Penitentiary. And seeing as how you're the only doctor Edward Nygma hasn't threatened to murder yet, the board believes you are the right one for the job, and frankly, Dr. Quinzel, I agree with them." He stood up, folder in hand, and retrieved his walking stick from the sofa.

Harleen quickly stood up, although her knees shook violently at the prospect of being in the same building as The Joker, let alone the same room. "Um, Warden Sharp, sir, don't you think I'm a bit," she hunted for a word, "inexperienced to be taking on a dangerous case like The Joker? I mean, I've only been working here a few weeks."

"Nonsense," he puffed, unconvinced, "with your medical school grades, you could cure Ted Bundy. Mr. Nygma will be transferred to the care of Dr. Young." He placed the file on her desk and showed himself out, pausing as he stood in the doorway. "The announcement will be made tomorrow morning, and he will arrive precisely two hours later. I apologize for the short notice." He closed the door, and Harleen could hear his retreating footsteps and the occasional click of his cane echo down the nearly empty hall. She sunk down in her desk chair and picked up her coffee with shaking hands. Her shell-shocked brain could only process one thought: _He'll recognize me._ Harleen looked over at the file, presumably _his_, burning a hole in her desk. She tentatively reached out and picked it up. Looking at the folder, she tried to convince herself that it wouldn't be that bad. _After all,_she thought nervously, _my face was hidden in the shadows._Somehow, that didn't make her feel any better.

* * *

The next day, Harleen came into work, looking harrowed. She couldn't sleep last night. Today was the day The Joker came to the asylum. _It won't be that bad. Just take things one step at a time, Harls. One step at a time._She nodded to the receptionist, who looked just as stressed, and continued to the elevators. Stepping inside one, she pressed the button for the second floor, where the offices were. As the doors were closing, she heard a voice call, "Hey! Hold the elevator!" She quickly pressed the 'door open' button and saw a young man in a guard uniform rushing towards her.

He stepped in the elevator, panting, "Hey, Harley. Third floor."

She smiled and pressed the 'three' button. "Hi, Jacob. How're things in security?"

He sighed, but smiled, "Pretty boring, actually. Warden Sharp says there's gonna be something big today, though. Do you know anything about it?"

"N-no more than anyone else," Harleen stuttered, shifting uncomfortably.

Jacob didn't seem to notice any change in her behavior. "Well, I just thought I'd ask. So," he smirked, "are you willing to take me up on my offer yet?"

Harleen grinned at the guard. "No, Jacob," she giggled, "I will _not_ go out with you."

He smiled and asked, "Come on, why not?"

"Because we work together!" she laughed, "It would be weird." The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor and Harleen stepped off, laughing.

"Think about it!" Jacob called as the doors closed on him. Harleen smiled all the way to her office.

* * *

"_Good Afternoon, Gothamites! I'm Jack Ryder, and _you _are wrong!"_

Harleen stood, transfixed. The most dangerous man in Gotham was being wheeled into the next building, strapped to a metal gurney of sorts, giggling madly.

"_You think that The Joker is going to be executed for his crimes against Gotham?"_

She had vacated her office and stood in the main courtyard, along with basically everyone else. Even those who claimed to have better things to do were watching from their office windows.

"_Well, Gotham did away with the death penalty years ago. Mayor Anthony Garcia states that the city is sending The Joker to Arkham Asylum, so that he may 'rehabilitate enough to serve a life sentence in Blackgate'."_

She found herself moving closer, her legs moving of their own volition. The entourage of heavily armed guards surrounding The Joker moved at a slow pace, allowing Harleen to get within a few yards of them by the time they reached the door of Building B, which held Intensive Treatment.

"_Do you honestly think that _anyone_ can cure The Joker?"_

He idly turned his head in her direction and caught sight of her. Harley gasped slightly when he met her eyes and smiled slightly. As the doors opened and The Joker was wheeled in, he did something that nearly brought her to her knees.

He winked at her.

"_If so, then _you_ are _wrong_!"_

* * *

***If you play DCUO, you may recognize the basic format for Jack Ryder's little broadcast. He annoys me, but I like to make fun of him, so...**

**Now, my beta reader tells me that I'm making Harley "more afraid than [she] expected". Yes. The media has made The Joker out to be this barbaric, senseless killing machine. Plus, he scared the crap out of her and nearly killed her just a few weeks ago. So, she's still reeling from that, and just when she thinks she's safe, she's assigned to be face-to-face with this guy for however long it takes him to be sane enough to spend the rest of his life in jail. I'd be pretty damn scared, too!**


	3. The Joke's On You

**A/N: Hi there! I know, I'm a terrible person to keep you waiting so long, but life intervened, so...**

**Side note: I've bumped the rating up to M due to some... unsavory language from everyone's favorite clown. You've been warned.**

**PS This chapter has ****_not_**** been beta'd, so any and all mistakes are mine.**

* * *

_"Here's to Gotham's Commissioner G!_

_You lock up the weirdos, the crooks, and the geeks._

_You're a hero to all of the boys in blue,_

_But this time, baby, the joke's on_ **_you_**_."_

_._

_._

_._

_Geez, what a dump. This place must not see too much action. I'll just have to change that..._

The Joker, lying on the bed in his new, albeit temporary, cell laughed softly at his own joke. The walls were all grey concrete except for the large glass door leading out to the hallway. The floors were hospital-style blue linoleum and the furniture consisted of the cheap cot he was laying on, a sink and mirror, and a seat-less toilet in a corner behind a thin metal partition with rounded corners. He stood and strolled up to the mirror. Examining his scarred face, he wondered whose bright idea it was to put mirrors in asylum cells. _I could break out of here with one shard of this mirror and a fake stomach ache._ The thought was certainly tempting.

He wanted to meet the blonde, though.

The chick he winked at when he was coming in. The one he saw moving across the courtyard like she was in a trance. All long legs, tanned skin, and curves that would make Marilyn Monroe jealous. Just standing there, shaking like a leaf, watching him being led to his demise. Who did she think she was? So he would wait. Maybe the blonde could be his ticket out. He smiled and wandered over to the glass wall.

He would wait.

* * *

_Breathe in._

Harley splashed some cold water on her face, not caring about her makeup. She kept a small supply in her office; she'd re-do it later. Right now, she needed to calm down by whatever means necessary. If that meant drenching herself, so be it.

_One._

She snatched a paper towel from the dispenser, dabbing the now warm liquid from her face. Throwing it away, she stared herself down in the mirror, coming to grips with her fate and the events of the day. She was dying to settle down in bed with a pint of ice cream and a pint of beer and sleep until next week. And it was only noon.

_Two._

_He's just a person, _she told herself. _A sick, deranged individual who needs your help. Just like everyone else here._ The fact that he was more well-known than all the other inmates combined meant nothing in the eyes of the law. He was just like everyone else. Sure, he more than likely also had more blood on his hands, literally and metaphorically, than all the other inmates combined as well, but she could do this. Right?

_Three._

"You can do this," she affirmed. "You're a professional; start acting like it." Somehow, hiding behind her professionalism didn't seem to help much. Professional Harleen was soft-spoken and intelligent with the occasional witty comment. While it worked wonders around her colleagues, she doubted it would save her here.

_Four._

So he winked at her. So what? It didn't mean anything. It didn't send shockwaves through her very being. It certainly didn't make her heart race and her blood turn to fire in her veins. Her own reaction was more frightening to her than the man himself.

_Five._

She was already incredibly nervous when she had walked up to him. She wasn't expecting him to even look at her, but he wasn't exactly the type to do what people expected him to. Then he winked at her and something flared inside of her that hadn't shown itself for some time.

_Six._

A sort of rebellious desire had flown through her like a stealth bomber, leaving her weak in the knees. The last time she had felt this way was when she was seventeen, and it had ended with her losing her virginity to a twenty-five-year old man with a motorcycle and an affinity for firearms. And that was what _really_ scared her.

_Seven._

This couldn't be happening. This time two days ago, her biggest worry was finding a pair of nude heels to go with a dress she got for her birthday. Now, she was faced with the possibility that she wanted to have sex with The Joker, of all people. What the hell was wrong with her?

_Eight._

It _had_ been a while. Harley had focused on college and work for so long, her sex life, or rather lack thereof, took the back burner for more time than she wanted to admit. Maybe she was just desperate for some action. That had to be it. There was no way she was attracted in any way to the madman, sexually or otherwise.

_Nine._

Pushing that matter to the back of her mind, she focused on what she was going to do next. Protocol demanded that she meet with her new patient upon his arrival. Harley liked to think of it as a sort of parlay; a calm before the storm, almost. They would then begin sessions on a regular schedule.

_Ten._

Harley straightened her lab coat and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Replacing her glasses, she took one last look at herself before exiting the bathroom. After stopping by her office to redo her makeup, she would meet with her new patient, like she was supposed to. Maybe Professional Harleen could do some good after all.

_Breathe out._

She could do this.

* * *

He couldn't do this. He couldn't handle this... _torture_ any longer. The Joker slid down the wall perpendicular to the glass and groaned. If the _lunatic_ in the cell across the hall didn't _shut_ the _fuck _up in the next _five_ seconds, so help him...

"So then," the man across the hall continued in an obnoxiously arrogant tone, "he realized that he had fallen right into my trap! Sure, he saved the Mayor's daughter, but by doing so, he released the switch that was holding the caged policemen in place, dropping them into the acid! It was brilliant! And then..." He trailed off as the click of high heels echoed through the hallway. The man smiled lecherously as the noise grew ever closer, surely thinking of the woman who was wearing them.

The Joker, grateful for the relative silence, closed his eyes and hung his head as the sound of the heels came to a stop nearby. "Dr. Quinzel, what a surprise," the man across the hall drawled. "We don't usually have sessions on Wednesdays, but I'd be more than willing to make an exception."

"Sorry, Edward," said this Dr. Quinzel, a small bit of delight evident in her tone, "not today." Joker could hear him groan and mutter before he plopped down onto his bed, the rusted springs protesting beneath his weight. He heard the heels come closer still and then stop mere feet from him.

Joker opened his eyes a crack, raising his head slightly and seeing the heels standing in front of his cell. His eyes opened wider and travelled up the well-toned legs of the wearer of said shoes. "Hello, legs," he smirked, allowing his eyes to continue their ascent over her flat stomach and, uh, _well-endowed_ chest. Reaching her face, he realized that the _lovely_ Dr. Quinzel was his blonde. "Oh, it's you," he drawled. "Did you miss me already?"

She plastered on a smile that didn't reach her eyes and addressed him in a clipped tone. "Good Afternoon, Mr. Joker. My name is Dr. Quinzel, and I will be your doctor for the rest of your time here."

The blonde was his _doctor? This is too good to be true. _"Wonderful," he grinned. "I'll have the soup _de jour_ and a side of barbiturates." The doctor rolled her eyes in an attempt to appear annoyed, but he wasn't buying it. He had seen how she was behaving outside of the building just under an hour ago. Who did she think she was fooling with this confident, unflinching mask? Certainly not him. "You seem braver than the last time I saw you. What happened? Down a little liquid courage since then?"

The fake smile dropped from her face at his insinuation. "No, Mr. Joker," she spat, "I didn't."

"Forgive me," he said, rising to his feet. "I shouldn't have jumped to such a rash conclusion with someone I know _so _well." Her eyes narrowed as he continued, "Surely your newfound guts come from the fact that there's about three inches of bulletproof, shatterproof glass separating us. I imagine that if it were to, say, disappear, you wouldn't even _think_ of speaking to me in that way." He stared her down and she returned his glare with equal fervor.

"I suppose we'll find out, won't we?" the doctor replied, walking closer to the glass. "We'll be doing our sessions in a different room. No glass. No guards. Just you, me, and a pair of handcuffs."

Joker grinned madly, her final words spinning around in his head like a runaway Ferris wheel, creating delicious images. "Sounds like a good time," he grinned, flicking his tongue across his lips. "I don't mean to rain on your parade, kid, but it sounds like we _won't_ find out. I'll still be restrained, and I imagine there'll be guards _just_ outside, waiting for the slightest indication that all is not well."

The tight-lipped smile returned and she shrugged. "Maybe for now, but if you decide to behave, we can move into my office." She stepped even closer to the glass, leveling him with a glare that could freeze blood. "And it's _Doctor_, Mr. Joker."

Their gazes remained locked for what felt like an eternity, each waiting to see which of them would crack first. A devilish smile spread over Joker's face and he began to laugh uncontrollably. "Y-you little firecracker!" he managed between laughs. "You've got gumption. I like that." He stopped laughing abruptly, but the smile remained. "I'll tell you what. When, not _if_, but _when_ I break out of this little... _playpen_," he grinned, "I'll kill you last."

Dr. Quinzel smiled almost genuinely before stating, "You _won't_ break out. I'll see to that."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," he hissed, "_Doc._"

The doctor took a step back, smirking triumphantly, "I don't. We start sessions on Friday."

Joker hummed absently, "Why so far away? Why not tomorrow?"

"Protocol states that sessions begin the day after the patient arrives," she droned, "unless they arrive after eleven o'clock in the morning, as you did. In the case of such, the patient begins sessions the day following."

He fixed her with a bored glare, "You're very by-the-book, aren't you?" he asked in an equally jaded tone.

She ignored his question as she turned to leave. "I'll see you on Friday, Mr. Joker."

_We'll see about that_, he thought, watching her walk away. _She could actually be fun._

He didn't notice piercing green eyes that had watched the exchange from across the hall. He didn't notice the owner of those eyes ball his hands into fists and glare at the clown as the click of high heels faded into silence.

* * *

**Ooh, intrigue!**


End file.
